


beautiful and wild

by HowlinForHale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Blink-and-Miss Relationships, F/M, Gen, M/M, Pack Feels, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowlinForHale/pseuds/HowlinForHale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is his pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beautiful and wild

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in the Teen Wolf fandom! I'd love to hear what you think. :)  
> Oh, and here's my [Tumblr](http://howlinforhale.tumblr.com/) if you're into that kinda thing.

The moon shines brightly above the forest, a perfect circle of reflected sunlight that used to be warm someday but is now painting the land in cold, blue-grey shades. They settle on the trees, the ground, the leaves under Stiles' feet and the layers of clothes over his skin, dulling every shape like a veil or maybe like the first frost of a cold winter morning on the glass of his bedroom window.

Stiles doesn't feel cold though, doesn't feel much of anything except for the twigs crunching under his sneakers and the air rushing through his lungs.

He's running.

He's running and the wolves run with him, around him, behind and in front of him, and sometimes there are four legs and sometimes two, and their eyes glint goldbluered in the darkness and their teeth are white when they look at him and grin and laugh and howl, and Stiles howls back, and the moon lights a path for them and Stiles doesn't stumble, not once, and he's running, he's running and his pack is running, too.

They're free.

It's almost strange how happy they are after all this time, after all this pain, but maybe that's the thing, maybe they've kept going long enough and there is no hell anymore, maybe they've just opened their mouths and instead of water there was the crispy air of the preserve, waiting for them to – finally, _finally_ – reach the surface. Stiles is dizzy with it, breathes deeply enough to fill his lungs to the brim and pushes it out again, greedy for another dose of air that feels like sublimated ice.

Stiles isn't running at full speed, but the pack stays around him anyway; a rare show of consideration, and he almost misses the teasing and the betas' impatient “Come on!” from the countless moons before this one, them running ahead and him struggling to keep up, always at the tail of their little group, sometimes laughing, sometimes exasperated, but always a part of them, always.

This is good too though. Stiles can watch, this way.

Derek is at the very front as usual, but not far at all. When he turns around to look at Stiles, mid-run (and he still doesn't stumble, of _course_ he doesn't), Stiles can catalogue every detail on his face. He's not smiling – when is he ever – but the line of his lips seems less tight somehow, his eyebrows less creased, his expression more peaceful even than in all those times Stiles has watched him sleep. Derek nods and only turns back around when Stiles gives an answering grin in return, picking up the pace just the tiniest bit, like he knows Stiles needs to keep up but can't help wanting to arrive sooner anyway.

When he looks to his right, Scott is just there, running alongside Stiles but still just that little bit in front of him, that little bit faster, and Stiles sticks his tongue out at him and laughs when Scott does the same.

It feels like a long time since he's done that. Laughing.

But it's okay, now.

Jackson, following at Scott's other side, shoves at the other beta's shoulder and Scott bares his teeth in response. They're smirking though, playful like wild animals out in the open with nothing to care about other than being alive, being there, together, _being_. And maybe it feels like something is missing – a flicker of light reflected on ginger, soft, high laughter, the smell of wolfsbane on the tip of an arrow – but Stiles thinks that's probably okay, too. Scott and Jackson seem happy enough anyway, carefree in a way they weren't allowed to be for a long, long time. Too long, really.

It's been too long and Stiles is tired.

But he's with his pack, and he's alright. There's Boyd and Erica and Isaac, running to his left and sparing barely a look to Stiles as they chase each other, wrapped up in their own little reality. There's Scott and Jackson, smiling and urging him along respectively. There's Derek, all stoicism and sureness unless you, like Stiles, know to look for the restlessness in his shoulders, the eager glint of red eyes as he leads the way. Stiles, for all that he is human, feels the ties between them all down to his very bones, tugging with the kind of pain that comes from too much happiness, too much emotion, too much belonging, _too much._

This is his pack.

This is his pack, and he's alright, and he's tired, and he stops. It feels like the right time to.

The clearing is small, almost quaint despite all its wilderness, a hole in the thick carpet of the forest illuminated by the moon looming cold and unforgiving above Stiles. The earth is covered by grass in uneven patches, traces of brown like scars on green skin, remnants of nightmares come true embedded on the ground, if not forever then for as long as its image is reflected in Stiles' eyes.

For all the chaos, the six spirals are even more glaring in their perfect fluidity.

See, Derek. Stiles can be careful when he wants to.

“Nice moon today,” Stiles' voice resounds too loud in the empty space, “Makes for a good hunt.”

His pack doesn't answer. But then, Stiles doesn't expect them to.

Slowly, he takes his backpack from his shoulder and opens the zip. A thin, light plastic bag waits for him at the bottom and he takes it out, unwraps the layers carefully around the lilac petals of a single wolfsbane plant, roots still dangling from the stem as if reaching towards the earth, aware of their destination.

In the center of the circle of six, there is a small hole in the ground, placed in the middle so perfectly that someone must have taken a ruler to this place, painstakingly measuring and correcting and double-checking until the lines from spirals' centers crossed each other in the circle's very core.

Stiles can be very, very careful.

He places the wolfsbane there, anchors it into the ground with hands, earth and imagination, a spark he didn't think he'd have in this moment. But he does, because he has to.

When he looks up, his pack has gathered around him and he can see the grass and the trees through their leather jackets and the moon reflected on their bodies, like light in a thick fog. Derek nods and Stiles feels panic rise for a second, but then his pack crowds closer and he's peaceful again.

This is their last run in this world. The last time to howl at the stars above Beacon Hills, the last time to trace paths they know by heart after so many years, the last time to march through the preserve like it's their kingdom to rule and protect – and it _is_ theirs, Stiles thinks, after the hunts, the killings, the fights, the victories, it's theirs forever because when the humans will have forgotten, the forest will still remember.

This is their last run in this world.

Someday, when Stiles' bones have grown heavy with age and his mind weary with wisdom, when the years have blurred into each other like a color palette under running water, when their paths in the preserve have long since vanished and new ones have been made instead...

Someday, Stiles will return here again. And the clearing will glow lilac in the moonlight, and the spirals will be covered in flowers and the scars will have healed long ago, and the petals will whisper hello in the passing breeze and the earth will welcome Stiles with open arms. And Stiles will close his eyes and sleep in a bed of wolfsbane, and when he wakes up they will run again, forever.

But until then, this is their last run in this world.

His pack smiles at him and Stiles smiles back and they raise their heads in a silent howl to the moon,

and Boyd and Erica and Isaac run off first, a short wave and a grin to Stiles before they're off, their silhouettes vanishing in the mist of the trees despite the night being cold and dry,

and Jackson raises his hand as if to thump his fist against Stiles' shoulder, pulls it back at the last moment before his nothing can touch skin, smirks and gives a nod before turning to the tree line,

and Derek looks at him, just looks because they've never been very good at talking but Stiles thinks he understands anyway, now, and if Derek's form is a bit misty even though he's standing right before Stiles, if the fire burning in Stiles' heart maybe finds its way to his eyes and makes them water, if Stiles can't smile even though he wanted, _promised_ to, there is no one else to see it and Derek, Derek's good at keeping secrets,

and Scott, good old Scott, smiles, because this is them, this is Stiles and Scott and they've always been smiling at each other, and this is why Stiles smiles now, and nods, and Scott nods back and then they're off, off into the woods and somewhere beyond where Stiles can't follow for a long, long time,

and then Stiles is alone in the clearing, and he's smiling and waving and crying and laughing and screaming and _howling_ and isn't saying goodbye, he isn't, _he isn't_.


End file.
